Bittersweet and Strange
by StolenCompass
Summary: The Prince is the Beast, the Beauty is the only hope. When a man who lives his life knowing nothing but the cold cruelty of the world meets a woman who believes that life is a beautiful thing, the world turns inside out. A modern take on the Beauty and the Beast.
1. The Cruelty

The prince—not really a prince—sat behind his mahogany desk, looking at the cowering little servant of his palace. His palace, a building full of little workers all loyal to the prince and their duties. But this particular little one, he knows this one to be named Mark Lowell, has been dozing off and forgetting important deadlines and staff meetings. The prince fixed him with a stone-cold expression on his handsome face. His green eyes locked with his, and the servant swallowed hard.

The servant, Mark Lowell, cowered at his stare. The wall behind the prince is lined with a lot of frames encasing various certificates of recognition, things he will never have the ability to achieve even if he works his ass off for the rest of his life. His unkempt and dry hair now covered with sheen of sweat and his voice would quiver when he answered the prince's question. "How is your family, Mr. Lowell?"

The prince asked this not because he was concerned, but because he needed to know if sending Mark Lowell away and off of his palace is worthy. Although weighing this decision is not anymore useful since he had already decided long ago what to do with people like Mark Lowell.

"T-they're… okay, I guess," he stuttered, looking at his hands. His hands were shaking because he primarily knows what would happen—though he was hoping it wouldn't happen. Which is unlikely.

"Do you know me… Mr. Lowell?" the prince asked, crossing his legs and leaning back on the rest of his chair.

The little servant did not know what to reply this with. He does know how the prince works or what the prince likes or does not like, but he, or any other person for that matter, does not know who he really is.

The lack of the servant's answer irritated the prince. "You know how I dislike late reports, Mr. Lowell. Everybody knows how I dislike being kept waiting—

"You don't understand, sir," the poor servant stuttered. "My mother's been sick—s-she's—she's in the hospital—I can't go to work—

"Silence," the prince said, calmly. Almost too calmly. "I've heard enough, Mr. Lowell. My decision is final. You can go pack your things now and get your final pay from Ms. Lucinda in the front desk."

The prince looked at the shivering little worker. He looked afraid and petrified, but he had to leave. "Now!" he said, surprising the servant with the decibel of his voice. The servant, Mark Lowell, is no longer a servant. He is now unemployed and trying to look for a job—but being thrown away from one of the largest companies in New York does keep you from getting anywhere.

The prince—not really a prince—is named Sebastian Smythe, the wealthy son of the deceased owners Gavin and Mallory Smythe. He has been running the company for a total of two years now and he has been doing pretty well with it—except he had been pretty brutal with his management, which sent them to an all-time, record-breaking, ground-shattering golden age. The presses say the young Smythe is the one reason for this golden age, and his ability to manage is something his predecessors had lacked.

The young Smythe, twenty-four, is the golden son to the parents he almost never knew. He is the prince to a palace that everybody fears; he is the ruler to a kingdom that bows to its knees when he orders it to. He is the most powerful, but what's he to do with the power?

Life is a hierarchy of status. Some people are at the top, some people are in the middle, some people are at the bottom. It's a simple complexity that runs the human economic significance. The number of people who belong to a certain group increases as they go deeper. Somewhere in between the working class and the lowest class, you can find Santana Lopez. She is a hardworking American citizen, a good New Yorker, and an existing soul amongst those who are struggling to live in between the strong marketing strategies and destructive products.

She lives with her aging father in a small, dingy apartment downtown, and is working as floor manager in some small music store. She loves it there being surrounded by the hundreds of materials she has and hasn't heard before and for someone like her, it is heaven. Her workplace is near the "Huge Palace" as she calls it; what with its Greek columns and arcs. She always looks up at it and tries to imagine the people there wearing 18th century wardrobe, greeting each other with curtsies and such, and dropping to their knees when they see the ruler. She smiles to herself at this ridiculousness. But this ridiculousness includes her father who's working for that huge company inside the Huge Palace, so she keeps that thought to herself.

Besides, it's a good place to keep an eye on her father. He has been pretty sick lately, and he's struggling to work since her job isn't enough to pay the bills. He allows his daughter to be where she is happy, but she sees how hard it is for him to manage.

"I'll work somewhere else high paying," she always says.

"No, stay there. It makes you happy, doesn't it?" he always replies back with a small smile.

Happy. If there's anything Sebastian Smythe is, it definitely isn't happy. He looks over his huge fiber glass window into the magnificent view outside and tells himself that if anything, he should feel great about himself, but he does not and it's not helping that people think he's a monster. And all this because he wants excellence in life.

He hears the knock on the door behind him and the creaking of its opening. Only three other persons are allowed inside his room, no other dared enter. And since everybody is asleep at this time of the night, he assumes it is Alfred Candela, his loyal butler, the only person who seems to check up on him.

"Sir, there is someone downstairs wanting to see you," says the aging butler, standing next to the open door with a peculiar expression.

"Who is it?" he asks, turning away from the window to face Alfred and setting down his glass of brandy on his night stand.

"I don't think there's time for that question—

And just in time, he hears a commotion from down the hallway getting nearer as they speak. It was noisy, as if someone was being dragged to a jail cell. In a matter of seconds, a man, disheveled, strongly reeking of alcohol, and poorly dressed, barged in and walked directly towards the prince. The prince recognized this man to be Mark Lowell, or a much inferior version of him. The prince did not budge nor move an inch. Mark Lowell stood in front of him, breathing heavily, with fire in his eyes and alcohol in his breath. He looks so angry and the prince had the idea as to why.

In a few seconds, two of his guards from downstairs caught up with the intruder. They held him and almost dragged him out, but not before he got these words out of his mouth.

"You—you are a monster! You, you-you should die, you hideous monster! You ruin lives, and dreams—you heartless piece of machine! You don't deserve one, you beast! I bet you live in your oblivious bubble because the amount of-of hate towards you should be enough to make someone kill himself. But you—you are a beast! Here," and he withdrew a withering rose from his pocket and threw it at him, thorns and all. "I look forward to being at your funeral, beast."

He stood seemingly unfazed as the inferior being was dragged away and out of his house. Then he looks at Alfred and says, "Your security guards have one job, Candela. And they couldn't do it right."

Alfred, who was always the stronger heart despite having lived with the prince for more than ten years now, said, "Kicking them out would result to nothing, Sebastian. They are efficient, if you only recognize their efficiency. Swatch is one of the best there is." He walked towards the withering rose and picked it up.

Sebastian only scoffed and downed his glass of brandy before Alfred took it, giving him a weary look.

"I know what you're thinking," the prince says as he sat on his bed, locking eyes with his loyal servant. "The man has a point. I am a monster."

The loyal servant paused to think, and then met his eyes once more. "Everyone has a monster in them, sir. Some people reel them in better than others. You are a man of strong principles."

The prince was quiet. No one will ever know what's inside his head, only he does.

* * *

**AN: **This is another fic from yours truly. I know I left something hanging, but I lost my muse and this came. I promise to try and stick with this as long as I possibly can.

Read and review guys.


	2. The Beauty

**AN: **Here it is, the next chapter. Thank you to all those who reviewed, favorited, and followed this story. Keep doing what you're doing and I'll keep doing mine. I love you all!

* * *

"_Papa_, I'm going to work!" Santana Lopez said, walking down from the narrow staircase beside their dingy kitchen. She goes to place a kiss on her father's cheek before sitting on the little stairs in front of the door and putting her shoes on.

Walking around their little apartment doesn't require that much hard work. A walk from her room to the kitchen is about ten steps; from the kitchen to the living room, five steps; from the living room to the door, five steps; from the kitchen to the bathroom, less than five depending on the urgency and the hurry.

Her dad, Mauricio Lopez, stood from the kitchen table and walked over his daughter with a small frown lining his thin, wrinkled lips. He sat beside her and said, "I'm going to be… working overtime, darling."

She turns sharply to face her father with a worried expression on her face. "But you're sick, _papa_. You're going to get worse," she replied. Her father, with a weak smile, turned to her and said:

"But this is for us, _mi casa_. This is for you, continue your college, Sanny."

"You don't have to do this," she said, shaking her head. "I'm working on it. I'll be in college before you know it."

"In a million years, _mi casa_," her father said, taking her hand. "I want your future to be bright and lovely as you are. My dream before me and your _mama_ had you was to give you all the best. I failed at first, but this is my chance to be a better father to my angel."

Santana Lopez, although sad, embraced her father and bid goodbye before closing the door behind her.

* * *

"Santana, you're five minutes late," an Asian man with glasses in his mid-twenties said as he walked out of the storage room carrying a box of vintage records, smiling fondly at the woman. Santana looked at him with a smile of her own whilst putting her bag behind the counter. "I thought the dragons ate you, what with the weather today, hm?"

"I'm sorry, Mike," she said, mock apologizing. "The dragons were a hard obstacle, but I came a long way. Not gonna let them defeat me."

Mike Chang is Santana's employer and good friend. He'd like to think he's living in a fairytale or some story with dragons and fairies and wizards. Some people may think it is pretty weird, but Santana finds it amusing and hilarious sometimes. It was like speaking in poetic metaphors and she likes literature a lot. If she weren't seen drowning herself with music from her iPod, she'd be seen reading books.

Mike Chang owns the little music store called "The Beez" just across the Palace. This place, like heaven, has everything from vintage records to modern ones and, as a worker, Santana is allowed to play any track she likes at any time of the day.

Mike put the box on top of three others and pointed at the woman. "That's why I love you, San."

Santana smiled sweetly before stacking the newly bought CDs to the shelf next to her. She was surveying the new imports and she would say the indie ones are the best there is of this era. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she sees this silver-plated and cased self-titled CD, "Puckerman", and she smiles to herself.

Mike may have seen her because he was hovering over her with a grin as he handed her a bouquet of carnations. She took it with a confused look on her face. He's married, and to a magnificent woman to add.

"For milady, from this gunk," he said as he noticed the look of perplexity on her face, grabbing the CD from the shelf, shaking it in front of her face and putting it on the "Best Sellers" section. For some reason, Mike had this unpleasant, scrunched up look on his face.

She examined the bouquet and saw the little card above the sea of pinkish petals. It simply says, in a neat handwriting,

"Good morning, Lady Santana. I hope you have a good day.

Noah Puckerman."

She can feel her cheeks getting strained from so much smiling.

"He dropped it off early morning," said Mike, grabbing the nearest box from the door and putting it under the counter of her desk. He straightened from underneath and added, "I don't know, San. He seems cocky to me."

"Excuse me, Mr. Dating Expert, he's not your boyfriend," she said, raising her brows at the man in front of her.

Mike pursed his lips and said, "And not yours, too. Not entirely, anyway."

Santana bit her lip at this. "He's a rock star, Mike."

"Doesn't count as a reason, San," he counters, giving her a look. "If he likes you, only you and no one else."

Noah Puckerman, twenty-five, is a rapidly rising rock star. He's signed to Lamarck Records together with his band, "The Puck". They already have two albums out, and the latest has three best-selling tracks. So, the charismatic guitarist and lead vocalist gets his shot at fame and nails it on the head.

He and Santana met when he and his band were still playing bars and little gigs around town. When he got famous, he was _forced_ by his manager to date this rocker chick that looks like that girl in the movie "The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo".

"He's doing it for the cameras," she said weakly, putting the bouquet under the desk counter.

"Oh, honey, no," said Mike, shaking his head and heading into the storage room, but not before shouting out, "Carnations don't count either, princess! Not unless they're roses."

Once he emerged again, Santana was standing next to the player and was putting a CD in it.

The familiar hybrid sound of the intro to John Mayer's Heartbreak Warfare started to build up from the speakers and Mike smiled. "John Mayer, hm?"

She turned to him and nodded with a small smile.

They were both startled out of their conversation by the loud horn of the black Lexus that came to park just across the street, in front of the Palace. The car was about to hit a seemingly absent minded lady. The lady looked like she was about to throw her coffee at the car's windshield, but she froze when she saw who it was that exited the car.

A tall but handsome brunette young man in a simple but elegant suit stood straight beside the car and looked down on the lady. It seemed that the stare was enough to petrify the woman. One second more and she was out of the young man's sight.

"That's one of America's youngest billionaires," Mike said, clearly fascinated. "The prince, they say."

"He looks twenty-five—

"Twenty-four, actually," Mike interjects. "Your dad works for him, right?"

"Mhm," she said, nodding. "He may just be a spoiled little kid who inherited his parents' business company. It's all take and no give, you know."

Mike must have ignored her comment because he traveled all the way to the back to get something. She continued to stare at the young man who was now talking on the phone with someone. He looked calm and collected for someone so young and handling a huge company. If she were him and up to her knees working, she'd be going mad.

"This!" the Asian man raised an old looking newspaper and rushed to her side. She showed her the newspaper and on the front page, it read:

"SMYTHE POWER COUPLE, DEAD IN A CAR CRASH. LEAVES FIFTEEN YEAR OLD SON ORPHANED."

"They died a few years back—I kept the newspaper 'cause it's one where The Beez was featured somewhere at the back of this—never mind. He did not inherit the company though, San. Tragic story, I know," he said.

Her eyes averted from the newspaper to the young man outside who seemed to be wrapping up his conversation on the phone. She could only imagine a fifteen year old boy waiting for his parents to come home but finally realizing that they will never be home. It could just be her imagination, but she thinks he saw her staring at him. His face remained stoic as he turned to give his phone to a waiting assistant and walk towards the entrance of the Palace.

* * *

The prince, after a long ride from LA to the Palace was tired of the claustrophobic air of being confined so he decided to take an important phone call outside the building. He stood there, after having almost hit a passing worker, phone on his ear.

"I will not settle on that petty offer, Whitcomb," he said calmly over the phone. A ten million profit would not budge anything, he thought. "Make it twenty and I will be yours."

"I love it when you sweet-talk to me, Sebastian," Devin Whitcomb, the executive owner of Whitcomb Industries, said, grinning. "Fine, it's a deal. I'd be meeting you tomorrow morning?"

"Afternoon," he replied. His eyes strayed to the little music store across the street and saw a woman looking his way. The sight almost distracted him, but Devin's voice brought him to reality.

"Okay," he said. "Long trip from LA, yes?"

"Yes, see you tomorrow afternoon."

And with that, he ended the phone call. He gave another look at the woman in the music store, examining her face. He's one of those who see a face and easily define them as either significant or not. He just can't seem to place his judgment on this one. So he turned, gave his phone to Miranda, his assistant, and walked into the building without another glance back.

He'd forget her, for sure.

* * *

**AN: **Heya, read and review, guys! You keep my typing fingers happy.


	3. The Decision

**AN:** This is the next chapter. Hope you all enjoy. Keep 'em reviews coming. Let me know what I'm doing wrong. Reminder though, that even if this is based on the story "The Beauty and the Beast", it is still solely made up from my mind so the story might follow its story line, but I'm free to change things.

And yes, Puck is Gaston. ;)

* * *

The prince sat behind his mahogany desk and examined the schedule on his phone. After his appointment with Devin Whitcomb, he would be sending some staff to check on the local firms and to recruit some young architects from the University of Columbia.

A few seconds later after setting his phone down, his desk phone rang. He pushed a button on it and out came Ms. Lucinda's voice. "Mr. Mauricio Lopez from the processing office would like to see you."

_Mauricio Lopez_… he hasn't heard that name before. Maybe some other times he had interacted with this particular worker, but he does not make it a habit to know their names or how they are doing.

"Send him in," he replied briefly before waiting for the door to open. It did open to a man in his mid-fifties, tall, lanky, and old. He became skeptical.

The old man carried an A4 sized paper with writing on it and the prince could only guess what it could be. The man looked nervous as well, but the prince fixed him with a stoic gaze. If this was something unimportant, he would have this servant cut off from work. He has no time for bullshit.

The man gingerly walked towards the prince and greeted him with a nervous smile. Now he seemed familiar. Of course he should, but that is not what this feeling meant. It felt like he had seen those eyes somewhere but never did recognize from whom he had seen it. _This better be worth my time, _he thought to himself.

"Your point, Mr. Lopez," he said, lifting an eyebrow. "_Rapidement_."

"Ah, yes," the old man said, quivering a little. "I would like to hand you this, Mr. Smythe. It's… it's, uh, a request for promotion."

The old man put the paper on the desk, but the prince did not even spare it a glance. His eyes remained fixed on the old man's face. He could see him swallow hard in nervousness. "Tell me why, Mr. Lopez," he said, crossing his legs.

It looked like the old man was ready for this question. "I have been working for your company for almost ten years now. I've seen people come and go because of inconsistency—that which I have the opposite of, Mr. Smythe. I am very consistent with my work. I have never missed a deadline. Last year, sir, I only used two absences—

"_Assez_," he said, making the old man stop. Mauricio Lopez did not understand whatever it is that he just said, but he just assumed it was something near the word 'stop' and 'enough'. He shivered with nervousness. He was still under his gaze and it was making him more nervous than ever.

He did not know what brought him to talk again, but the silence was feeling more of a bad thing so he did. "If it's not okay, sir, that's—that's alright with me, I'll be—

"I said 'enough'."

_Oh, so that's what it meant._

"I will… consider it," said the prince, looking at the piece of paper on his desk. He does not touch it, nor flip it over to look at its contents. He just stared at it and at Mauricio. "Get out of my face."

And he did. After leaving the room, his breathing became significantly lighter and easier.

Mauricio Lopez had only walked into that room twice. Now, and ten years ago when Gavin Smythe was still living. Although that was long ago, he could still remember how the older Smythe welcomed him to his new job with a smile and a warm-hearted speech about work ethics. At the corner sat the little brunette kid with wide green eyes, observing his father quietly. The kid and he met eyes and Mauricio smiled fondly at him. It would be a small thing to remember and he doubts the prince remembers it, but the little kid smiled back at him with that same kind of warmth his father radiates with.

Fast forward into the present and he finds himself facing the same kid but with a different, darker vibe surrounding him. Mauricio could only imagine what happened in those ten years that turned the child upside down. _Both his parents died in a car crash, that's why._

"Lopez! You ready for lunch?" asked Dominic, one of his workplace friends, as he walked past him.

Mauricio nodded and smiled to his direction before disregarding his previous train of thoughts.

Never would he have guessed that by the end of the day, he would be thrown a decision that would turn their lives around.

* * *

There it was again, the thundering headache.

He ordered Ms. Lucinda from the front desk a bottle of aspirin and water before turning the paper that Mauricio Lopez had given him over. It is a request for promotion. It says in the paper that Mauricio Lopez has been in the company for ten years now and has never missed a deadline, an appointment, or a call. That, for him, is an impressive work. If he has this man in his line of workers at the Mansion, it would be good.

The Mansion, needless to say, is the prince's place uptown. It is where he resides together with thoroughly selected servants. It is a great white mansion that overlooks the city skyline's greater views during sunrise and nighttime. Everyone in the Mansion could just enjoy the magnificent view if it weren't for the heavy tasks and the thorough rules and regulations.

Although working in the Mansion can mean a significantly higher income, the Mansion observes strict rules about communication outside—or just plain distraction from work. The prince sees to it that there are no cellular phones, radios, internet connections, and other sorts of things that can stray a worker's mind away from concentration. The Mansion is equipped with signal jammers and strict surveillance devices that keep track of movement inside the vicinity.

The only communication the servants are allowed to have is by handwritten letters sent through mail. Which, in itself, is hard to do. But once it reaches the hands of the guards at the front gate, each letter would be torn open and searched and checked. Nobody and nothing makes it inside without purpose, or emergency, or urgency.

The Mansion may be appealing with its looks and the things it offers to the workers, but nobody knows the sacrifices they make inside the incredibly lonely structure but them.

The prince, as he sat behind his mahogany desk, crumpled the paper in his hands and threw it into the trash bin with perfect accuracy. Mauricio Lopez, who has been working for this company for more than ten years will be working inside the Mansion for a month, and will be given everything and more. Dedication and commitment like his deserve to be recognized and given their fair amount of price.

Sebastian Smythe, the prince, took the pills and downed it with a glass of water before leaving the room for his appointment with Devin Whitcomb.

* * *

Santana Lopez had just come home from a specifically private date with the up and coming rock star, Noah Puckerman, when she arrived home to find no one in there but herself. She looked around the small apartment and saw no sign of her father, who should be home before her.

But then she remembered how he stated in the morning that he would be requesting for a promotion and overtime from his boss. She sighed as she reheated last night's lasagna in the microwave. When her father comes home, dinner would be ready. She just hopes he'd be fine and not coughing up his lungs or she would really be worried.

This sickness had already been bothering both of them since last month and they don't exactly have that kind of money to afford his maintenance medication. He could only manage to afford generic pills and they don't really do well as substitute.

She may have not heard how the door clicked open, nor had she heard the thumping of footsteps on the stairs because the next thing she knew, her father was dressed and was carrying a small suitcase. She turned away from the microwave and eyed him warily. Her heart dropped at the many possibilities to explain this scene.

"_Papa_, where are you going? And why do you have that suitcase?" she asked in a weak and weary voice.

"Sanny, I was promoted at work," he said with a wry smile. This kind of smile, Santana knows very well, is the kind that has something else other than good news behind it. So she anticipated the blow, but she couldn't quite grasp why her heart still stopped for a millisecond when she heard the news.

"But I will stay in the Smythe Mansion for a month—I'll be working there," he continued, as if trying to seep into his tone the apology she dire needed. "It would be beautiful there. Most of my friends who used to work there say the view is beautiful at night—they also say the only communication is by courier mail, but we will manage, right, San?"

She was shaking her head, violently trying to block out whatever it is that he's saying. It was as if he's killing himself to get her what she needs. He's sick and he knows that, but he wouldn't stop hurting himself working overtime. And now, this?

"_Papa_, you don't need to do this—

"Yes, I do, Santana," he said, seriously. "I want to get you that college education. Please let me. I love you so much, my daughter. You're the only one in my life right now, and I want to do everything for you."

"_Papa_," she said, walking towards him and enveloping him in a tight embrace. It took seconds for him to respond, but once he did, he pulled away almost immediately.

She couldn't quite comprehend why, but there's a distant look in her father's eyes that she hated so much to see. The last time she saw him like this was when her mother died. It looked as if it was the look of detachment, and this time, he's giving it to her. Her heart couldn't be more broken.

The last she saw of him was as he was walking out of their door and into the night of the city.

* * *

**AN:** I'll leave you to comment what you think of this chapter. Next one will be a little filler. Ciao!


	4. The Mansion

The first thing Mauricio Lopez notices was the heavy rain. The only jacket he has in all his life was the one he was wearing and it was undoubtedly getting soaked. He arrived at the Mansion's gate about five minutes ago and he was still contemplating whether or not to click that button to let somebody know he's there.

And then the lightning struck and the thunder roared and he was pushing the button as if his life depended on it. The intercom crackled a little before it spoke.

"State your name and your position," said the voice.

Mauricio cleared his throat before saying, in a quivering voice, "Mauricio Lopez, Head of Processing and Finance."

There was silence and he imagined that whoever it is behind that voice from the intercom was calling the cops to have him inspected. It felt like the most probable thing as of that moment for him. He was drowning both in his negative thoughts and the rain when the front gate magically opened without anyone holding them.

He took tentative steps to the front door (53 steps, in total) and it opened as if on cue. His heart raced dramatically as it revealed the most prestigious looking interior he has ever seen in his entire life. Having been born in a family of twelve, being the sixth of the ten children his parents bore, he has never entirely seen so much elegance in flesh. He has seen beautiful mansions and houses on TV but not as elegant as this.

Everything he sees is white and intricate. The stairwells at both walls lead to a single overlooking balcony. But it looked dark and lonely up there. Shadows were looming menacingly into the hallways of the upper floor.

Nevertheless, it was as if he wasn't meant to be there. He shivered in the cold, but he did not dare step inside in fear of staining the cleanest walls he had ever seen.

Out of nowhere, a man in his mid-fifties, with graying hair and beard, in a formal tuxedo appeared. He seemed to know who he is when he casted a skeptical look at Mauricio. _The people in here are different, _he kept reminding himself.

"Mr. Lopez, let me lead you to your quarters," the man said in a cool and calm tone. Mauricio was about to grab his belongings but the man beat him to it. So he just stood there, blinking rapidly. The man, who was still unnamed to him, started walking and talking and he needed to collect himself to take in what he was saying.

"Upstairs is where you and all the other workers stay, sleep, eat, and work," said the man. "By the way, I am Alfred Candela, I look over everything that's happening here."

"Let me explain to you the rules in brief: no cellphone, internet connection, radio, TV, and personal computers. The only computer you will use is the one in your room. You will eat and bathe and sleep in your room. Your rooms are fully air-conditioned with a queen sized bed and an amiable sized bathroom. You are allowed, encouraged even, to interact with the other workers, but any form of distraction, noise, or misconduct will be met with immediate unemployment. Communication outside is by courier mail. The only telephone here is in the West Wing—but no one is allowed to travel to the West Wing unless called for.

"Do you understand?"

Mauricio Lopez blinked a couple of times and nodded. That was a lot to take in, but by the moment he finished talking, he stopped in front of a door at the end of the East Wing hall. Alfred dropped his bags in front of it and motioned for him to enter.

"This will be your room, and here is your key." He dangled an identical pair of keys and handed it to him. "Mr. Smythe specified that your stay here will only be for a month—but if by any means, your performance is exceptional, you can request for a longer stay."

_As if anyone would, _he thought.

"If you need anything, the intercom will help you. There is a catalog of codes beside it; you can dial at any time. I will be leaving you to rest. Tomorrow, you will start with work. Wake up call is seven AM. Good night, Mr. Lopez, see you tomorrow."

Alfred Candela disappeared into the dimness of the hallway and that's the last person Mauricio has talked to that day.

He went to arrange his things in his room.

Alfred Candela was right, it is a fully air-conditioned room with a queen sized bed and an amiable sized bathroom. More spacious than his living room and kitchen combined. It was a fresh change but he misses his daughter already.

He fished out the bottle of his maintenance pills and took one dry. He looked at it again and counted.

_One… two… three… four. _Four more pills.

* * *

The first person he meets inside the Mansion was Mrs. Dolores Potts, the Head Cook of the Mansion. She knocked on his door first thing in the morning and delivered his breakfast. She and her son, Kit, are both residing inside the mansion, she had said.

But before she walked away, he stopped her to ask.

"How long have you stayed here?"

The big woman with a kind smile and in a red apron turned to him and said, "For as long as I can remember, Mr. Lopez. I was young when I first started here. I took after my father's work as a chef in the Mansion, had a son, and then returned here after my husband died."

As a desperate attempt to gain an acquaintance in this hell of a place, he asked again. "Your son, how old is he?"

"He's eight, nine next week," she said fondly. "But he's smart for his age, I have to say. You can meet him by the garden later, while he's cutting the grass."

"Did you have to convince Mr. Smythe to let him stay here?" he asked again, getting more curious by the minute.

"Oh no," the lady shook her head. "Mr. Smythe is a kind young lad. He offered that we stay here after our little house burned. Do you have a child, Mr. Lopez?"

"It's just… just Mauricio," he said, shaking his head with a smile. "And I do have a lovely daughter at home. She's… I hope she's doing fine. Does your son go to school?"

"Yes, in fact, Mr. Smythe pays for all the expenses," she said proudly. "Yours?"

"She… I'm here for her college education," he said, casting a look downwards. "I, uh, you should get going. You have a whole tray of food outside to deliver, don't you?"

"Yes, I do have," she nodded, giving him a kind smile. "Don't you worry, Mauricio. The prince is a kind person beneath all that snarky personality."

She turned and exited the room, leaving Mauricio to his thoughts.

_The prince, that's what they call him here. _

It has been two gloomy weeks with only two handwritten letters received from her father. She is still worried sick about him. He isn't that religious in taking his maintenance pills for his sickness, and he isn't that keen on taking care of himself. Who in hell would put a 'no communication outside' rule? That's outrageous.

Her father needs someone to look after him even if he always reasons out that he's a grown man and he can take care of himself. Every minute of every day, she wouldn't stop thinking about her father and it's not helping that Puckerman is all over the news with his new rocker chick. Not the same as the last one—and definitely not her.

And so, one rainy night, she just got up and called a cab.

"Uptown, the Smythe Mansion, do you know where that is?" she said to the cab driver.

"Of course, ma'am."

There are some things she needed to sort out.

* * *

**AN: **Here's another chapter for you, guys. Hope you enjoyed. Review for me because I love hearing what you have to say. A cliffhanger, yes. So stay tuned to for the next... and the next, and the next.


	5. The Bad Man

The cab driver, after much convincing, dropped Santana off in front of the front gate. He was thoroughly afraid of getting caught driving away from the mansion because, according to him, there's something really fishy about that huge menacing façade looking over the New York sky line. Nevertheless, she was not going to back down. That Smythe guy would get a piece of her mind before she takes her father away from him.

It wouldn't matter if he'd kick her dad off of work, she would do another job or two to get what they need.

It started to rain again—this time, heavier. She could swear she saw a shadow lurking around the even darker shadows barricading the mansion from the outside world because out of the corner of her eye, something moved. So she tried her best in acting, and pulled something from her high school plays.

"Hello?" she cried out, trying her best to sound desperate. Well, she kind of is because it was so cold she can literally feel it in her bones. "Is there anyone there? I-I'm lost. The driver dropped me h-here. Hello?"

Footsteps, she heard footsteps on the wet grass walking towards her direction. She almost smiled when she saw a man in his late fifties with gray hair and gray beard, in a raincoat, appeared from behind the shadows. "What are you doing here, Miss?"

"I'm lost," she said.

"Why did the driver drop you here?" the man asked curiously.

If there's anything that she didn't learn from her father, it was her being a liar. "I don't know. He said I have to go on from h-here… can I go inside? Just for a while, sir. Until I figure out what to do?"

The man surveyed her for another minute before sighing in defeat. "Do not make a sound. I will fetch Mrs. Potts from the kitchen. We'll go through the back door."

She nodded and smiled inwardly when the old man opened the front gate. He swiftly caught her arm in a gentle but firm grip and led her through a series of pathways to the back door. When the door opened, she was met with the cleanest, most spacious kitchen she has ever seen. Her amusement was cut short when the man made her sit on one of the stools beside the kitchen aisle.

"What's your name, miss?" he asked, giving her a tight but kind smile.

"Santana," she answered briefly, looking around at the white kitchen. Everything in this house seemed white and empty.

"My name is Alfred," he replied in return, turning from her to face some sort of telephone on the wall. "Where did you come from?"

"Downtown," she answered. She might have to talk less so as not to blow her cover. This is starting to feel like a bad spy movie and she's getting more anxious by the minute.

A large lady with a kind smile and a red apron appeared from the door, bringing with her a bowl of steaming soup. She smiled fondly at Alfred and then at Santana and placed the bowl of soup in front of their guest. _How can such kind people live in here? _She thought to herself.

"Thank you," she said, giving the kind lady a grin. The lady replied with a curt bow of her head then disappeared into the shadows of the outside of the kitchen.

Alfred, who was observing her from the wall, pushed himself off it and stood on his own balance. "This is not a good place to get lost into, princess," he said, giving her half a smile. "But I would really like to help you. If you're ready, I can get you a cab and I'll pay for it. Just ring me, my room number will be just beside the intercom."

"Thank you, Alfred," she said, nodding at him.

Her food was barely touched when she decided to find the Smythe that's behind this entire monstrosity. The people inside the Mansion don't deserve this kind of punishment. She felt like it was her calling to at least give the bastard a piece of her mind to let him know that he's not right all the time.

She got to the second floor when she was met with two choices, to go right or to go left. Wherever she turned her head to, she was met with dimness. Only a few hallway lamps were open and she felt a shiver run down her spine as she imagined monsters lurking and looking through the darkness. _Mike is getting into her nerves right now._

She decided to go right.

* * *

It had been what… more than two weeks now? And it felt like an eternity, Mauricio Lopez thought as he leaned back his chair and stared at the ceiling. He could feel the cough escalating up his esophagus, but he bit it back down and kept it where it was. If Santana were here, she'd be worried sick about him. He couldn't deny the fact that he looked like he could be on his death bed any minute. But he wouldn't be, not in a million years, he swears.

He wanted to tell himself that he's still up and running—that he's fit for the job whatever happens. And whatever happens, he would finish his one month stay. But he couldn't deny the fact that he was feeling weaker every day. It could be because he was missing his daughter, but it could easily be also because he had run out of his maintenance pills. But that's okay. He could manage, he'd like to believe so.

One way or another, he would admit that he is miserable without his daughter. Because in the entire world, there is not one person who would care for him but Santana. It is getting dark, and the rain is getting heavier. He wondered what his daughter is doing right now, or if she's doing great at all. He's plenty sure she would manage on her own, but he's also plenty sure she misses him as much as he does.

He wanted to get his blood pumping and running so he decided to get out of his spacious but stuffy room to walk around the hallways. It has been two weeks but he hasn't gotten around the Mansion that much since all he ever does is work, eat, sleep, and work again. He hasn't gotten anywhere when, all of a sudden, he looked up to see a familiar pair of beautiful brown eyes. The name stumbled out of his mouth before he even registered the sight.

"Santana," he said, not knowing if he was happy to see her or horrified that she's inside this hell hole.

There was also a look of surprise on his daughter's face, but she regained a rock hard expression before grabbing his arm to the direction of the staircase. "Papa, you have to get out of here. This is bad for you," she said, tugging at his arm.

But he wasn't even five steps away from his door frame when he stopped and made her turn around. "No, Sanny. First of all, how did you get here? And second of all, why are you here?" he asked, letting her know with the tone of his voice that she's not supposed to be anywhere near the Mansion.

"Because you have to get out of here and if you're not going to do it yourself, I will," she said, pulling at his arm again. She was able to get him halfway down the stairs when he stopped her once again, his face set in a stone-cold expression.

"My angel, no," he said, shaking his head at her. "What if they catch you here? Did you know that the Mansion has security cameras everywhere? If you get caught, you might be sent to jail."

"That's precisely accurate, Mr. Lopez," a voice said; its timbre ringing around the almost empty hallways. The source of the sound was coming from downstairs, and they couldn't quite pinpoint the face of the shadow below, but both of them were sure they are in a lot of trouble. For one, it didn't sound like the kind butler, Alfred.

The shadow moved to the wall and clicked the lights on, only to reveal the Smythe that owns the place. He held a small book in his left hand and a pair of glasses on the other hand. He looked at them with that stony expression that revealed neither his feelings nor his reaction, just his disapproval. But then, he smirked at them and it caught them off guard. The prince never smiled, nor smirked. Then, he turned to the wall once more and pushed a button on the intercom under the light switch.

"Code Wall, Alfred," he said into it.

Mauricio's heart leapt and skipped a beat when he heard him. He did not know what those words meant, but he was sure it's something about this situation and he's darn sure it's not something good.

In a matter of seconds, two hands grabbed his arms and a man appeared behind his daughter. They were restraining them and he could feel his heart beating madly. All he could ever think about was that his daughter should not have come here. He recognized the one holding Santana to be Leroy, or as they call him here, "Swatch". The ebony-skinned man with shaved hair looked at Mauricio apologetically.

Mauricio turned his head towards the prince and said, "Please, don't—my daughter, she's got a lot ahead of her—please!"

He watched as the prince pocketed his glasses and put the book on the table beside him slowly, as if taking pleasure in his pleading. "Oh, no. I am confident that you, with your records of good morale, have read the rules, listened to Alfred about it, and are willing to abide by it. But your daughter, it's her fault, isn't it? Because she, firstly, has trespassed, and now, she is trying to violate the contract you signed. I might have to send her to jail—

"No, sir, please! Send _**me**_ to jail!" he pleaded, his voice raised and wild. She has never seen her father this riled up before. Mauricio Lopez is a calm and kind person.

But she wouldn't let her father go to jail because of her. "Are you kidding me? You should be the one put into jail. You withhold people here—

"With their consent, _mademoiselle_," he said directly to her, their eyes meeting in an intense stare. "Even if I send you to jail, your father will have no job. You both will be miserable. So…" he seemed to pause in order to think. Once he came up with something, he met her eyes once more. "I will offer a proposition. Your father will be sent home peacefully, and you will not be sent to jail—but you, Miss Lopez, will be working for me until the day I decide."

Silence hung on the air like a man on the ledge of a fifty-story building. His father was vigorously shaking his head at her silently, pleading for her to not do it because he knew that she was seriously contemplating on taking that offer.

_The man on the ledge jumped._

"I… will take that," she said, avoiding her father's gaze and instead locking eyes with the young Smythe.

"Santana! No! _Usted no puede decidir sobre esto por su cuenta_!" her father almost yelled. His eyes were watering and it just broke her heart to see him like this, but she can't also see him suffering behind bars.

"_Papa_," she muttered, wriggling out of the hands of the man who was holding her firmly and making her way to her father. She looked at him first with an apologetic expression and then embraced him tightly, whispering, "_Que va a estar bien_."

Which, in translation, is the opposite of what's truly happening.

* * *

**AN: **This was long overdue. I am very sorry. Life caught up with me, but it's okay now. Read and review guys! The next will be a little filler. Stay tuned.


	6. The Little One

Have you ever been to Mount Everest? Or maybe even the North Pole? She hasn't been to either of those places but she could feel the empty coldness of the Mansion as its spotless white walls greeted her; the same empty and cold feeling those places supposedly give. She felt a shiver run down her spine as she set foot on its polished floors. She felt extremely out of place and it felt like high school all over again. But this time, there are no eyes. Just judgment hanging on the walls and the air.

"May I get your bags, Ms. Lopez?" said a familiar voice from behind her. Just like magic, out of the blue, Alfred Candela appeared. It was as if he was living inside one of the walls behind her.

She was startled, to say the least, but she agreed on his proposition. Her bags weren't that heavy but she was sleepy and tired from crying all night yesterday after she delivered her father home and packed her bags immediately. It was one of the most foolish decisions she had ever conceived and she considered other propositions the Monster would have agreed to—and yes, she is now calling him the Monster in her head—but fear overruled her. There was something so intimidating about the Monster that she imagines herself staring into his eyes and being literally petrified.

"Let's go," Alfred said, snapping her out of her train of horrid thoughts. "This is the way to your room—which was your dad's room before."

Santana looked at Alfred with curiosity. There seemed to be a merry soul in him that stands in contrast with the blanket of gloom surrounding this mansion.

"The basic rule is to not have a connection to the outside world," he said, a little more grimly. Nevertheless, he stared ahead with a small smile.

"Like a prison," she exhaled, pursing her lips.

"Accurately so," said Alfred, turning to her with another grin. "But we do have gourmet meals and state-of-the-art accommodation and highly-trained people. The context of prison is just a hidden undertone."

She has to agree, if this were prison, then the outside world would be heaven. She relishes in the wall of abstracts, photos, and paintings. The person who picked all of these framed artworks is a genius. The expensive vases lined the hallway corridor, all empty, but beautiful nevertheless. Then she stopped in front of a framed work. It was a photo of a beautiful woman with dark brown hair and green eyes. Her cheeks were a lively rose color and she was smiling. The background was all dark, but she could make out the little circles of light behind her.

Alfred must have noticed her staring at it because he was now standing behind her. "That was the time he got his first camera. He had a knack for it, surprisingly. Smart little kid, he was," he said, smiling sadly.

"He?" she asked, but she had a little guess at who he's referring to.

"Mr. Smythe," he replied. "Little Sebastian was a talented kid. He was passionate and full of life."

"I doubt it," she mumbled under her breath.

"A lot of people do, too," he said. She was surprised that he heard her, but people here are like mythical creatures with special abilities or something. "Although, I know otherwise. Come on now, Santana." Alfred walked ahead, beckoning for her to come.

She thought about a little kid with green eyes and dark brown hair laughing and talking with this woman who looked peculiarly a lot like him, pointing and shooting the camera. It was hard to imagine the Monster like that. She noticed that Alfred was almost disappearing behind the darkness of the hallway so she caught up with his pace.

"I—I don't know how to work here," she said, collecting her thoughts. She knew her dad works as a head of… something, but even if she knew what he does exactly, she needs a few months of training to become even remotely close to being able to do the job.

"Don't worry that much, dear," he said, stopping in front of the door at the farthest end of the hallway. "I will see to it that you will do minimal in your time here. Your father spent most of his time at the garden, did you know?"

The garden, she thought. She remembered how his father instructed her to first find Mrs. Dolores Potts and meet her and her little kid. "I… where can I find Mrs. Dolores Potts?"

"Dolores?" Alfred asked, raising his eyebrows. "Yes, you will be meeting her after a little more while. She will be serving dinner in a few and you and she would make great friends. Your father made quite a friend from her."

She smiled at this. It's good that her papa made a friend. At least he wasn't completely lonely here.

"This is your room," he said. "If you need anything, there's an intercom there to help you. There is also a catalog of all the codes that would be a help. If you need something, don't hesitate to call for me."

* * *

The next person she meets after Alfred and Dolores, who is definitely not a monster and not a robot, was a little kid named 'Kit'. He is a nine-year old boy who resides in the Mansion as the grass trimmer. She met him when she decided that late morning to go outside and try to see the beauty of the mansion.

She was sitting on one of the stones under one of the big trees in the Garden, surveying the well-kept greenery in front of her and admiring its beauty when she caught sight of a head peeking from under one of the bushes nearby. The head seemed to be busy with something from underneath the bush, but it soon looked up to spot her. And she was surprised, to say the least, when she recognized it to be a child.

The little boy with wide blue eyes and light brown hair grinned at her largely.

"Hi there," she called out, still perplexed as to how a kid ended up here. The brown haired kid emerged from the bushes and rushed to her with such energy she could not help but smile with him. He ran to her while dropping the huge shears he was carrying. He was dressed in a little denim jumper and brown boots. He took off his gloves and stared at her in astonishment.

"Are you the newest one?" he asked, amusement in his tone. "You are so beautiful."

She was caught off guard by his statement, but she recovered and gave him a compliment in return. "Thank you, and you are just the little adorable one, aren't you?"

The little boy giggled at this. "My name is Anderson, but my mom calls me Kit," he said, still smiling. "She says it reminds her of my dad. I am the grass-cutter of the Smythe Mansion!" he said proudly, as if cutting grass is the most noble of jobs.

"Really? And you like cutting grass?" she asked, a little confused.

"Yes, because Mr. Smythe likes the grass cut all the time," he said, motioning to the pathway a little farther from them. "He talks to me about cutting it and we walk down that little road that only he walks on and he gives me books. What's your name?"

"My name's Santana Lopez, it's nice to meet you," she said, and they shook hands.

"Like… are you Mauricio's daughter?" he asked, his eyes shining. "I always thought his daughter was my age—maybe I can fall in love with her."

She laughed at his spontaneity. "You can't hurry love, darling," she said, still laughing. She was really enjoying her time with the little kid, but out of the corner of her eye, she sees someone walking down the pathway Kit was pointing at a little while ago. She immediately recognized the Monster in his casual attire, a white polo shirt and slacks, reading a book whilst walking.

Kit must have seen her looking at that direction because he laughed excitedly. He seemed to be quite fond of the Monster. "That's him! Do you want to talk to him?" he asked, but before she could even respond with her declination, the kid was already running across the Garden towards the Monster.

She watched with a stone-cold expression as the kid was welcomed into his arms. They seemed to be in a conversation and the kid looked like he was trying to get him to cross the yard to her, and he seemed to be declining, too. The child ran back to her with a slight frown and said, "He is busy, but he said he'll find time for you."

"That's good, Kit," she said, not really meaning her words. The Monster neither smiled nor gave the boy euphemistic suggestions, but the boy seemed to like him. That was unusually peculiar.

Nevertheless, the empty and gaping hole that moving out and away from her father carved into her soul was slowly healing because of her newfound friends. Somehow, even if she could not make her stay there the best, at least she can make it better.

* * *

The prince's stare lingered as he watched the woman talk to the little boy. Anderson looked like he was enjoying the woman's company and she looked like she was enjoying the kid's eagerness, too. And then their eyes met once more and he returned to the book he was reading.

* * *

**AN: **Oh hey guys. Such a late update. But hey, I introduced little Kit. Tell me what you think of him. For y'all info, he is the little teacup in the story. And he will play a pretty significant role later in this story. Leave me reviews about him below! Ciao!


	7. The Unfortunate Events

The prince sat on his bed, awake and restless. He looked at his nightstand to glance at his bedside clock. It is nearly four o'clock in the morning and he hasn't slept yet. Why? Because… well, because something has been running around in his mind. His mind is reeling and his chest is constricting in a painless black hole. There seemed to be a massive hole in his chest that's not painful, but isn't comfortable either. He did not know who to call, and he did not know what to do. There's this feeling inside his head that tells him he's not going to last another day.

So he stood, took tentative steps to the intercom and pressed the number code he had known by heart.

"Sir, do you need something?" the voice said, still sleep-induced.

"Y-yes," he said weakly. "Please."

In a matter of less than a minute, Alfred Candela was knocking at his door, dressed casually and with a worrying look in his eyes.

"Sir," he said, his aging gaze telling hidden stories. "Are you alright?"

"No," the prince replied as he walked towards his bed and sat on it. He prompted Alfred to sit across from him on a wooden chair. The kind old man took it and leaned towards the young prince. "Tell me… again."

"Are you sure?" he asked.

"You don't know how it feels to be empty," he deadpanned, looking straight into the older man's eyes.

Alfred breathed in. He certainly does not know what the prince feels, or how it actually feels to not be able to know the feeling of having his own parents. He exhaled before he started.

"_There was a young boy…"_

* * *

_A young boy almost the age of fifteen stood in front of a full body sized mirror, smiling at himself. It is his birthday that day and his parents had flown all the way from Germany to celebrate it with him. Such a happy day, indeed. _

_He stood, proud and tall and gleeful, with his black and white formal suit, his brunette hair combed up and his heart alive and beating madly._

"_That's my boy," his father said, walking towards his son with a bright smile on his face. The boy's mother sat not far away with the same bright smile. The father knelt on one knee and reached to fix the boy's tie. "You're older now, my son," he said. "And wiser. One day, you will be enough." His father whispered to him, grinning._

_The little boy did not know what his father meant right at that very moment, because he was just so happy to have his parents back home._

"_Come on now, baby," his mother beckoned, standing up and setting the newspaper down on the table beside her. She has her arms reached out to him and oh how the little boy longed to embrace his mother. So he ran at her and enveloped her with his thin arms as tight as he could._

_He felt his head swirl with emotions._

_And then everything went black._

_The next thing he knew, he could hear the sounds from the outside world, the little beeping and the carefully quiet whispers. But he could not recognize the words. His eyes would not open and he could not move. Something heavy is lying on top of him and he could not move. He wanted to cry, but he couldn't. He wanted to scream for help, but he could not find his voice._

_But slowly, ever so slowly, the weight slipped away. And slowly, his eyes opened. _

_The dim light of the room did not surprise his eyes, so he found himself looking at three strange looking people. One of them was a woman with bloodshot eyes. She was still crying and hugging a tall man with a stoic expression on his face. The other man, a man dressed in a white coat, held a little clipboard and was looking at him grimly._

"_How do you feel?" the man in the white coat asked, his voice soft and caring._

_The little boy did not speak nor move. He stared at the ceiling, his heart beating slower and his mind searching for words. He wanted to cry because he did not know where he is or who these people are. And cry he did. The tears would not stop falling from his eyes and his heart felt painful. His mouth formed into a frown and he lifted his arms to cover his eyes. He kept sobbing quietly._

_Then, he felt arms wrapping around his tiny body. But he did not want anybody near him. He thrashed wildly to free himself from the arms trying to knot themselves around him. Even if the needle in his hand hurt, he just wanted to get away. _

"_Go away! Get off of me!" he cried. "Help me!"_

_He could hear a woman's sobbing in his ear and it just made him cry harder. "Please, get off me! Help me!" he cried still, pushing. Suddenly, he just gave up. He felt limp and tired and he could not go on anymore. He just sat there, letting these people hug him. Whoever they are, they are sad. But he is sadder._

_After another hour, with him just lying on his white bed and staring at the white ceiling, he listened to them introduce themselves as Gavin and Mallory Smythe, his parents. And his name is Sebastian and he is their son. The words were imprinted in his mind, but he would not believe it. He could not believe it._

_After a few days, they accompanied him home. His _home _is this big house—a mansion that's both haunting and empty. He stared at it, because it is white and daunting. _

_A man older than Gavin and a black young man younger than Gavin stood in front of the door steadfastly, waiting for them to arrive. The older man looked kind and caring, while the younger black man looked menacing and scary. His parents walked him to the front door; Gavin handed the black guy the baggage he was carrying while Mallory talked to the older man. The older man kept nodding and frowning and looking at him that it made him angry not knowing what they are talking about._

_And angry, he was. Every day, he felt angry. Every day, when these people try to make him memorize things, he felt angry. Every day, when he felt angry, he would throw things. Whatever he got his hands on, he would throw it as hard as he could. And then he would cry in his room. He would lock it and just cry until he fell asleep._

_Somehow so, when he wakes up, people would be staring at him carefully. One day, it would be that older man named Alfred, and the next, it would be that black man, Leroy. It was as if they are watching him. And it made him angrier._

_The young boy did not know that every time he falls asleep, there is always a possibility that he would not remember them again. This is where the fear solely came from. But the young boy could not understand._

_One day, he became so angry that he sat in his room all day, not caring if he was hungry or if he needed something. He was so angry that he did not want anyone near him. The kind man, Alfred, always knocks on his door to make sure that he is fine, but he would not answer. _

_And then Gavin knocked, his voice weird and weary. "Son," he said through the heavy wooden door._

_He felt anger as that word fell from this man's lips. This man, Gavin, had disappeared for periods of time after they got home from the hospital. And he hated that more than he hated the sudden attention given to him after losing what is in his head. For most of the time he spent at home, he was always found in the study room scribbling on a little black notebook. He had no time to spend for his son. So when he knocked at his son's door, it was a surprise._

"_Son, are you there? Please answer me," he said, and somehow, this made him stand up from his carpeted floor and put his ear on the door._

"_I'm here," he said._

"_Do you want to go somewhere?" Gavin asked. "Somewhere, anywhere you'd like."_

"_Away," he answered. "Not here. Please."_

"_Come with me," Gavin pleaded. "Let's go now."_

_The father stepped away from the door and counted to ten in his mind. At eight, the door opened and his son emerged from it._

_This is the son that he loved—the son he lost and now, he wanted to redeem him again. _

"The good news is," the doctor had said, "that we have detected only three lapses in the part of his brain that stores his memory. This is rare, but the lapses will only happen twice after this. There is no warning sign. The most vulnerable that he will be is when he is asleep. His brain turns off completely, so he has no ability to dream, and he is most susceptible to his brain reformatting."

_He took his son and his loving wife to a quiet little ice cream parlor. When Sebastian was little, he had always enjoyed this particular place. It was almost always empty and he had always loved that they have these quiet moments together as a little family. And then, this happened. And Gavin had never felt so down all his life._

_His only son had lost him and he had lost his son._

_That particular day, after sitting inside the ice cream parlor for the last four hours, they had decided to go home. The little ditty was somehow a little fun—if you asked young Sebastian. He almost had this nostalgic feeling but it did not fully develop. When they got inside the car, they sat in silence, but in a comfortable kind of silence._

_The whir of the engine lulled him to sleep, so he rested his head on his mother's shoulder._

* * *

Alfred had stopped and stared at Sebastian who was listening intently at him with his eyes closed. He opened his green orbs slowly, and looked at Alfred, bewildered.

"You always stop at that part," he said, his eyes were questioning.

"The heart can only take so much," was his reply.

But tonight in particular, Sebastian did want to hear how it all ended. "Tell me."

"Are you certain?"

"Yes, I am."

There was this air of determination and desperation that Alfred had to give in.

* * *

_Two vans were behind them in their trail and it had started to rain. The corner was just about a yard away and Gavin had decided to slow down because it was a blind curve. He did slow down but the vans behind them had sped up. The two unknown vehicles lined horizontally in front of their car and they would have avoided it—but they were still riding a bit too fast._

_Gavin honked at them, but it was too late. The road was slippery and they were already swerving._

_Mallory embraced her son, enveloping his sleeping figure inside her embrace—and then everything went black._

_A day later, this would be found in the papers._

**SMYTHE POWER COUPLE, DEAD IN A CAR CRASH. LEAVES FIFTEEN YEAR OLD SON ORPHANED**

_Their son… he was left with nothing but a little black notebook that a man who claims to be his father had been carrying around. And an empty mansion with strangers he had never known._

* * *

**AN: **Okay, back story here. Tell me what you think. And I'd like to request for you to look back on the other chapters and look for the foreshadowing I have engraved. It's fun leaving little clues behind because readers enjoy them as much as I do. Thank you for reading! Reviews and comments are highly appreciated! I love you all! Ciao!


	8. The Momentary Moment

The next time the prince saw Santana Lopez was the same time of the day on the same grounds they met for the second time. He saw her on the Garden talking with Anderson. Looking at the child, he saw that he seemed very eager and so animated whilst narrating. He was laughing and rolling on the grass like a child would. Santana Lopez, on the other hand, was also enjoying the company of the little one, although anyone except the kid would see that something wasn't right with her. She seemed melancholic and out of place.

Nevertheless, her beauty was still enticing.

He did not know what he was doing there in the Garden, but he had taken a liking on this novel 'The Once and Future King' by T.H. White, and the Garden seemed to be the quietest place in the Mansion. Although every corner of the Mansion is eerily empty and quiet, the Garden provided that natural light he so badly needed—away from work and all the burdens.

He was almost, almost distracted by the sight of her and the way she talks—that was until she looked up to almost meet his eyes. He looked down immediately, his sight landing on the open book between his hands. His eyes landed on one particular line on the page he was on:

"_Perhaps, we all give the best of our hearts uncritically—to those who hardly think about us in return."_

He closed the book and sighed. He looked far away, not ahead of him, but instead somewhere he wouldn't see the Latina. Something bothered him deeply and it would just bug him the entirety of the day if he would not get it out of his system.

* * *

"It's a simple little dinner for one, there is no problem with that—

"The prince will know!"

"He will not if everybody will keep their mouths shut! It has been years since we last had someone new here."

"I don't agree. We had Mauricio, but you did not give him any extra special treatment!"

There was silence between the two male voices arguing. There seemed to be a contemplation before the older voice spoke.

"There was something different with the way the prince looks at her… and…" the voice paused, thinking thoroughly.

"And… what?"

"And I think he likes the girl," the older voice replied.

"That is preposterous!"

Mrs. Dolores Potts could not help but interfere. Alfred and his nephew, Leroy, were arguing inside her kitchen and she could not help but eavesdrop. She opened the door and said, "No, it is not, Leroy."

"Dolores," Alfred said, sighing in relief. "Goodness you are here. Tell Leroy about it."

"Well," the lady said, raising her brows whilst looking at the younger man, "I am no story teller, but I sure know when a man likes a woman. It is in the way he looks at her."

"You two are out of your minds," Leroy said, shaking his head. "How can you ever know that?"

The two older people looked at him incredulously. All Leroy could do was roll his eyes and sigh in exasperation. The prince is someone that cannot be predicted. These two old people aren't always—what are the odds that they were right? Preposterous, right?

But Alfred is his uncle, and Dolores had done so much for him. It wouldn't hurt to do this little favor, right? He could only lose his job anyway.

So later that night, Dolores, Alfred, and Leroy together with some of the other people in the Mansion worked on a course dinner for a very special guest. Although this was so against many of the set rules, Leroy had enough trust in both Dolores and Alfred to know that they won't get caught. To how they actually got the other people to work with them was still a little bit surprising, but the two elders were always close to the hearts of the other servants.

They were waiting in the dining hall, the huge one, whilst Dolores helped get their guest ready. Kit and Leroy helped make the table presentable by adding the little flowers the young boy had gotten from the garden. They even argued about where and how to place it, but since the younger lad had much more of an experience than the older bodyguard, they had to go with his decision.

"What's going on?" Santana Lopez asked as Mrs. Potts ushered her to the direction of the huge dining hall. She had been there only once, and it was when she decided to go touring by herself. She knew how huge it is and how prestigious it is because the first time she walked into it, the first thought in her mind was 'Wow, this is a hundred times larger than my whole house'.

"This is a little surprise from us, darling," the older woman grinned, guiding her to the closed doors. They stopped in front of it when Santana turned to survey the old cook.

"What? Why?"

"Because… well, because you are special," she replied, her grin widening. She reached her hand for the intercom and buzzed it two times. The heavy wooden doors opened mechanically, and when Santana turned, she was met with the long table ornamented with dinnerware and candles and fancy food. Her mouth would have watered if it weren't for the suspicion and the surprise.

"What is this, Dolores?" she asked, and then saw Alfred and the young black guy with little Kit all standing together beside the only place on the table that's fully decorated. She couldn't take the skepticism away from her mind.

"Alfred, what is this?" she said when Dolores refused to answer her question, turning her attention to the men standing.

"You ask too many questions, lady," he said with endearment. He walked towards her and caught her arms gently, pushing her to sit on the chair. "Why don't you just… enjoy this little welcoming of ours? Tonight, we will let you be our guest."

She could not speak anymore when Alfred went to call for the assistant chefs to enter and serve the dinner. And she was just taken aback by everything from the beautiful garnishing to the delicious dishes.

One servant, a male one, served her wine and she never had this much good of a wine before. She might have enjoyed some middle class booze with her father when an occasion calls for it, but she had never had white wine made even before she was born. She was still wondering why and how this came to be, but she could feel nothing but gratefulness right at that moment.

"You like it?" the little kid asked when she took a bite of the marvelously tasting beef steak. His eyes were all lit up and Santana could not help but grin with him.

"I do, yes," she nodded, swallowing. It did taste beautifully though and she wondered who… of course, it had to be.

"My mom cooked that! And all of those," he said, pointing proudly at the table full of food.

"Why don't you sit with me and eat?" she asked, nodding for the boy.

He was about to walk towards the table, but his mother shook her head at him. He returned to his position with a frown, saying, "I'm sorry, I can't. Mr. Smythe said we are not allowed to touch the table unless we are serving food."

Mrs. Potts embraced her son with a sad smile. "Eat to your heart's delight, Santana. Tonight, you are special."

"But why?" she asked, and somehow, all she could think of was how the witch in the story 'Hansel and Gretel' made them eat to get them fat just to make them ready when she cooks them.

"Because we want your stay here to be great," Alfred replied for Mrs. Potts, smiling. "Besides, we have the finest cooks here and we would want someone other than the prince to taste our most special dishes."

_The prince_, there it is again. The blind euphemism these people throw around sound to her like they see the Monster as a delightful creature, which to her is not. Besides, who makes a rule about not touching a table—or not allowing people to a certain part of the Mansion?

"I am honored," she replied nevertheless, smiling finally at the people around her. "But this would feel greater if someone would join to eat with me. There is nothing gloomier than eating alone on a long ass table."

The servants around her chuckled quietly, but were silenced when Alfred shot them a strict look. He himself seemed amused by her choice of words. But he leant closer and said, "The rules clearly repulse us from the table."

"_Clearly_," she repeated, nodding with a frown. "Well then, one day, we will all be sitting on the grass outside and be dining altogether. This table is the devil."

The servants once more laughed at this and Alfred retaliated with the same strict look which silenced them almost immediately, except for little Kit whom he let. "One day, miss Santana," he replied, smiling this time. The old butler seemed perplexed by her spirit. Truly, she is one special girl.

* * *

**AN: **Hey guys. I'm sorry for keeping you waiting. This is is though. Although I think it is behind in quality. This was, as you might have figured out, the 'Be Our Guest' scene. Oh well, if you haven't, then now you know. Review, guys! It's important for me to know what you think.

Next chapter will be... well, fulfilling, I hope. Stay tuned. _Wink. _Ciao!


	9. The Lesser Pain

It's raining again and sleep has been shying away from her.

She has read somewhere that if you want to get out of a maze, you just have to follow the right wall. She has been trying to find an out from this hell, sick and tired of not being able to talk to the people she wanted to talk to. She is missing her father so much, and she could just imagine what her father must feel. He would be even more devastated, but what can she do? She's stuck here in this dark place where the only light are the few kinder people she has met.

Nevertheless, she literally found herself in a dark place during the wee hours of the morning. It has been, what, the fifth night that sleep rejected her and she had done nothing but wander and explore. That night, she had wandered too far and had found herself sauntering over dark corners and passages. She had never been in this part of the Mansion before and it is creeping her out. She always thought the dark Mansion would never extend—she was unfortunately and undoubtedly wrong.

Finally, she found herself at the end of what seemed like the darkest part of the world. Her hand skimmed the smooth wall as she walked, trying to find some kind of switch to open the idle hall lamps. Her fingers felt a little button amidst the concrete and when she pushed it, a lone lamp lighted up. It was the lamp at the end of the hallway. She walked farther into it, almost disregarding the fact that dawned on her—this is the West Wing, the only forbidden place in this hell hole.

The Monster has secrets, and this is where he hides them. If she trespassed, could she be in any more trouble than she is now? Besides, if there are dead bodies here or something, she might be able to take the Monster down—if she could even call the police. For one, no one here has a cellular phone or any kind of phone. And she doesn't even own one. If she did, she wouldn't be able to use it here, what with the signal jammers all around. If there are dead bodies here, she might end up like them. She shivered in thought.

_No one would know, _her mind whispered. And she could just feel her mind smirk at her. Fine.

The door at the far end of the hallway was ajar. And it was all the invitation she would need. Her hands pushed the heavy wooden door—just like all the other rooms here in this Mansion—and cold wind hit her on the face like a gentle slap. She could see light streaming in from the huge window, illuminating the little antique pieces of furniture. The paintings that lined the walls were also old and menacing. _Smythe has a taste for old things,_ she thought. But in the middle of the room stood a single old-looking table with a dome glass case set on top of it. In the glass case was something… something dead looking. To her, it looked like a dead twig. She took careful steps to examine it, and the more she got closer, the more it looked like a dead rose. It was dead, nonetheless.

_Weird, _she thought again. Her fingers touched the cold glass, trying to figure out why a grown man would keep a dead thing inside a huge room and nothing else. She was too wrapped up in her own thought to even hear the door creak open once more.

"What are you doing here?" a male voice hissed under its breath.

She turned sharply to its direction and found herself locking eyes with the Monster himself. His green eyes were livid but his expression was calm. He looked like he had not been getting any sleep either. His hair was still a little messy and he was wearing a white undershirt. His pale skin glowed under the moonlight as if he was a divine creature, which he is far from. His exterior might fool anyone, but his eyes told her everything. And she did not know that the fear that crept in her heart was far more intense than she had ever imagined, far more intense than the lightning that illuminated the whole room.

"We have rules, Ms. Lopez," he said, taking few long strides to reach her.

Her hands were now shaking and she couldn't speak.

"The rules were clear!" he suddenly exploded, taking the woman by surprise. He could see the effect of the loudness of his voice to her. Her eyes were tearing up on their brim, but she was clearly fighting the urge to cry.

In her mind, she was screaming at him how stupid and pathetic his life is. She was telling him that this Mansion's rules are absurd and are violating some kind of law or something. She was telling him that he is a monster, a devil, a beast. But in reality, she was just staring at him in silence, close to tears. He looked angry, but she was angrier at him. He took her away from her father, from her friends, from Noah. She has just the right amount of reason to be angry, but somehow, those reasons were caught in her throat.

"Speak," he said, grasping her arm in a not-so-gentle way. It would be bruising afterwards and it… it was too much.

"Let me go." She writhed and thrashed against his grip and his hands slackened a bit. Just enough to let her go. His face looked like he had just realized what he had done. But it passed her just momentarily before she took lots of steps away from him. If she didn't, she might do something horrible to him.

"This is… this is really, really stupid," she said to him, shaking her head disapprovingly. He stood in silence, breathing heavily in exasperation. "You are a monster."

She was shocked when she saw a passing of pain in his green eyes. But it disappeared just as immediately. His stoic expression returned and remained. In silence.

She shook her head again and frowned at the realization that this man is an impossible case. Any hope of changing him or his ways will always be futile.

She bit her lower lip to stop the tears from flowing, but they were already falling. She could not take it anymore. This man is the devil for making everybody's life miserable inside and outside the Mansion. The way he does it, it looks like he's doing it for fun and it's not—it's just not acceptable.

She ran out of the room and into the Mansion. She soon found herself trying to pry the front gate open before she even realized that she was running in the rain in the early hours of the morning with barely enough clothes to protect her from the cold. The guards whom she knew the second day of her stay in the Mansion yelled for her that it's dangerous outside, but she ignored them.

_Stupid idea, Santana. _

But she continued, nonetheless. Out into the pouring rain, into the impossible winding road of the huge ass land with no other residents but wild animals and some even wilder ones. She was too far gone to return, but she was too distant from civilization to continue. She could die in the rain, though.

_Another stupid idea, Santana._

So she continued walking, eventually running, until she stopped and told herself that she could not do it anymore. She leaned on the nearest tree, hoping to God that no snakes will be taking a bath in the rain that morning, and sat on the ground. Somehow, her shivering was the only thing that's making her body move. She would cry for help, but who would hear her? The birds? The trees?

She scoffed at herself as she wrapped her arms around her cold body. She could just sleep.

_You know, that sounds like a good idea, actually._

And so, she leaned her head against the wet bark of the tree, relying on its sturdiness to support the weight of her exhausted body. Her father would not have approved of this. He would not yell at her, but he would torture her with his old eyes, the eyes that speak of every emotion that he hides behind good and kind words. Oh how angry would he be if he finds out that his daughter died outside the Monster's lair?

_Santana. Wake up._

"No," she spoke into the rain, shaking her head and scooting closer to the tree. Truly, the imagination roars when you are about to die because right at that moment, before she closed her eyes, she swore she saw the same pair of green eyes that were angry at her just almost half an hour ago.

_Come on, don't make this harder._

That was it, that was what brought her back to reality. She snapped her eyes open and saw that it was the Monster who was carrying her bridal style amidst the rain. He, too, was soaked. And… and she could not understand.

"What?!" she hopped down from his arms and staggered to keep a balance on her shaking knees. "What are you doing here?"

"Saving your stupid ass," he replied.

She saw that one of his arms was bleeding underneath the white sleeves.

"What the hell happened to you?" she shouted over the noise of the rain.

He followed her eyes and found that she was looking at his wounded arm. "You don't have to know," he said, pulling her again and sweeping her legs with his arm. She squealed when he did so, and it made him flinch. He grunted as the wound opened again. "Why are you here?" she asked again, trying to get an answer from his stubborn personality.

He did not answer. She couldn't hop down again because he was too strong and because he had already started walking.

"You can at least tell me what happened to your arm," she said, their faces too close for comfort.

Before he had the time to answer, he was walking past the motorbike he was riding earlier. Somehow, the sight of it was enough to explain to Santana where he got his injury.

"Holy shit," she muttered at the sight of the fallen over motorbike. It was lying on its side on the patch of shrubs a few meters away from the trail.

"It looks like I don't even have to explain at all," he said to no one in particular.

"You—are you crazy?!"

"Look who's talking."

"Shut up."

"No, you shut up. It's enough craziness for one day."

Thankfully, that was enough to silence her. The quiet and quick walk back to the Mansion made her contemplate about this Monster. And also, it confused the hell out of her.

The next thing she knew, she was being carefully propped up on the couch next to the fire place. She felt the calming warmth dominate her body and she was almost grateful someone had saved her from her stupid idea. Even if that someone was… well, Sebastian Smythe, the Monster.

"Change," he said as he dropped on the couch next to her. He tossed her some of her clothes and one sweater that she had never seen before.

She took his words, changed in the nearest bathroom, and was back on the couch in less than a couple of minutes. He was changed himself, and this time, his injured arm was displayed. It looked menacingly painful though, and it wasn't the only injured part of his body. She could see that his jeans were rolled up so as not to let the hard fabric touch the other wound he had gotten on his leg.

"I'm sorry," she murmured, looking at his injuries.

"You should be," he scoffed.

She rolled her eyes and faced the furnace. She could see at the corner of her eye that he was minding his wounds. So she stood without a word and fetched the first aid kit inside the cabinet of the bathroom. She returned and saw him looking at her with dark eyes after seeing the kit in her hands.

"I won't kill you," she said, raising her brows. She knelt beside the couch and silently thanked Mike for teaching her the basics of first aid.

Of course, just like any medical procedure, something as simple as first aid might sting a little bit. What with the disinfectant being a bottle of rubbing alcohol. She tried to look for something less painful, but all she found was toothpaste which is no help at all.

He flinched even before the cotton touched his skin and Santana could not help but laugh at this. "The prince is a pussy."

"What—no!" he said in defense, shaking his head violently.

"Then stay still!"

And he did in silence, looking at the furnace as if it was the most enticing sight in the whole world. No, it's not. At least for the prince. For him, Santana Lopez with her hair down and her face illuminated by the fire of the fire place was, at the moment, the most enticing sight in the whole world. Not that he would verbalize that ever.

"Promise me, you won't do that again," he murmured.

"What?"

"Nothing."

* * *

**AN: **Heya guys, tis' an early update because I looooove you! Let me know what you think, mkay? I'd love to hear it. I hope this justified what I said last chapter. That is all, tho. Ciao!


	10. The Greater Gain

"I told you she was something else."

"That is the fifteenth time you have said that, Alfred. I get it."

"But you don't believe it."

"Come on! Can you just drop it? There is nothing there—!"

The body guard pointed at the prince who was sitting on one of the stone tables in the middle of the Garden with a book in hand. But he wasn't reading. He looked like he was in a deep argument with Santana Lopez. They both looked like they were debating about some kind of important matter.

Ever since that rainy night, after that motorbike incident, after that stupid attempt to run away, the prince and Santana are always seen together. Although… not in a manner that most would expect. Because every time any of the servants in the Mansion would see them, it would always be because they are bickering, or fighting, or teasing each other about different things. If you ask some of them, that would be the first time they will see the prince talking that much to someone other than Alfred.

If you ask Alfred Candela on the other hand, he would tell you this: that behind everything that people think about the prince, Sebastian truly is a compassionate person. Despite every harsh decision, his heart might lay dusty inside that chest of his, but he still is one of the kindest persons to ever walk into the old butler's life—next to his parents. He just needed someone to bring that out of him, to make it obvious. Right then, Alfred could totally see Santana Lopez as that someone.

He might have lost his memories twice already, but his heart remains intact, that's for sure.

* * *

"That's right, I would rather die than like you," Santana retaliated after almost an hour of arguing. She was pretty sure they both forgot what they were fighting about in the first place. The sunlight was relaxing though that even if her words were supposed to sting, she wouldn't mean any of them. She could sense the same with Sebastian.

Silence passed before the prince spoke. "I want you to dine with me. Every day for the rest of the week. If that is fine with you."

She might have lifted her eyebrows too high because Sebastian started shrugging and she hated when he does that. It just meant that he's thinking something is stupid.

"Are you serious?" she asked, her voice higher than usual.

"I am," he replied. "But that is if it's alright with you."

Santana noticed one thing about him that distinguishes him from other people. It might just be a minor detail, but she noticed that his vocabulary does not include the word 'okay'. No matter what he says, it would always be 'fine' or 'alright'. Or worse, it would sometimes be 'acquiesce'. As she first thought, it might just be a minor detail, but it tells a lot about a person. For one, he doesn't practice contemporary modern speech. That might mean he is a stuck-up douche who appeases no one but himself, or it could be that he has some kind of attachment to the past. Anyway, that was just some random psychology shit she had learnt somewhere, and that will never be her concern whatsoever.

"So what is it?" he asked, straying her away from her train of thoughts.

"That's okay," she said, nodding but not meeting his eyes.

"Good," he said, a small smile playing on his lips. After lingering on her face for a few minute seconds, his eyes returned to the book he was reading.

They let the rest of the morning go by without a fight, just the occasional exchange of thoughts. Santana was reading a book herself, and when she had something to say about it, she would tell Sebastian.

She would think it weird that after really hating the Monster, she was finally beginning to see that a person has more than two sides to himself. This side of the Monster was definitely not an expected side. Somehow, though, this was a side that includes his normalcy, his lack of ways to show how 'human' he actually is, and his profound interest in reading.

So later that night, she found herself sitting at the end of the long wooden table, overlooking the finest food she had ever seen, and looking directly into the Monster's eyes. Surprisingly, they did not have that usual glint of malice in them. Instead, behind the thin-rimmed glasses, his eyes were a little brighter. Or, in context, a little less dark.

Two servants, a boy and an older looking woman, appeared to serve them and afterwards, just retreated back to the white walls and observed them. Santana had wanted to ask the Monster about the stupid rules ever since her little dinner with Alfred and the others with them just looking at her. But she felt that asking about it would be disrespectful and untimely. So instead, she turned to the servants and said, "Why don't you join us?"

Their eyes both widened and their mouths hung open. They silently shook their heads and looked at each other in shock. Santana could not grasp why it was such a sin to even touch the table, so she turned her attention to Sebastian who was looking at her in amusement.

"What? In our house, when it is dinner, everybody should eat at the same time."

"This is not your house," Sebastian stated coldly, but his eyes were getting a little less dark than before. Santana could see that regardless of the distance between them set by the table.

She remained quiet. The Monster was right, this is not her house. But wouldn't it be a little less cold in it if the people here are warmly welcomed to do anything other than just work? And then, after a few minutes of silence, she finally gave up on thinking about things to talk about.

And if the Monster continued to look at her like _that_, she would fish his eyes out with her fork. Finally, she was so annoyed with him constantly stealing glances that she snapped.

"What?!"

And then, that was when she realized that she had never seen the prince smile because the moment he did, she was surprised. He even laughed a little. She disregarded the murmurs she heard from the servants behind her as she tried to dissipate the astonishment from her face.

"I apologize," he said as his laughter dissolved. "It is just that I find this… amusing."

"What is?" she asked, her brows furrowing.

"You."

Then it was her turn to laugh. Everything about this felt weirdly satisfying and fresh. A night of firsts, definitely.

And it was his turn to ask, "What?"

"Sorry," she said, breathing deeply. "It is just that I find this weird."

"What is?" he returned. Her laugh both annoyed him, and made his cheeks want to smile.

"You," she said, evidently trying to contain her laughter.

The night became a little less grim afterwards. What they talked about, she could not even remember but the next day, she was already looking forward to dining with him again. Maybe this time, he would let the servants eat with them.

* * *

"And he kept looking at me weirdly," she narrated, sitting on the stool of the counter. She was telling Dolores about her first dinner with Sebastian as she watched the older lady work in her kitchen.

Alfred was behind the counter while Leroy, who was still a little quiet around her, was standing behind her.

"Are you dining with him again tonight, darling?" Dolores asked, working the stoves and the countless pans in front of her.

"I think so," she replied, putting a piece of the cake in front of her in her mouth. "He asked me to dine with him for the whole week. I think that's weird."

"Is it?" Alfred asked, grinning.

Maybe she did not know what his grin meant, but what made it weirder were the looks he, Dolores, and Leroy shared; as if she was not in the same room with them.

* * *

**AN: **Heya, guys. 'Sup? Okay, so this chapter is a little short, but the next will be a little longer. Be ready, though. Review, guys. It makes me happy seeing your comments about things. That is all. Ciao!


	11. The Request

"_No, you try it. Come on, you sour puss!" _

There was laughter and it was enticing. The prince sat on the stone stool, staring at the woman lying on the grass. Her eyes danced with mirth, while her laughter was carried by the wind. What brought her on the ground and on top of the grass was her verbal realization that he, the prince, does not know how to unwind.

To quote her directly, "You're a stuck up stump who does not know how to have fun."

To which the prince defended himself with, "My work requires more of me than people understand."

"See?" she replied, pulling on the sleeve of his arm. "That's what I mean by stuck up. You're impossible."

And then, after a few seconds, she got up from the stone stool and sat on the ground with her legs crossed beneath her. "When we were still in Virginia, my _papa_ and I used to do this when we come home from work."

A breeze gently ran past the Garden, and the prince watched as she closed her eyes and listened to the leaves rustle in struggle against the wind. When she opened them again, they were brighter and happier—as if the wind brought in memories of her and her father. She meant to add that they do it because it makes them feel a little less tensed, but she was taken away by the mere memory of her father. The prince felt guilt in his gut knowing that it was him who separated her from the old man. _But he never feels guilt._

* * *

And so, that was how Santana Lopez found herself on the ground. Her smile faltered when she saw that the Monster was just staring at her like she was some kind of freak.

The sun was hitting her face in a way that's both calming and pleasurable. She just wished the Monster would know how to do this so that he can see what she means.

"Lay on the grass, you ass!" she urged, pulling this time on the fabric of his jeans.

The Monster rolled his eyes, but obliged nevertheless. His spontaneous obedience put a smile on her face. "That's it, you're almost there."

He turned his head to face her while he laid his legs out parallel to hers. He anchored himself up with his arms to support him as he tried figuring out what it is about her that makes him want to be angry and happy at the same time.

"You're doing it again, you know," she said, lying on the grass so that his eyes could shift their gaze away from her. She finds it… a little intimidating at times.

When his back was finally on the ground, she smiled to herself. Silence hung on the air, but it was not the awkward feeling one. It was that kind of silence that's filled with the silent noise of thoughts and memories. But when the silence got a little grimmer, she felt the need to speak her thoughts.

"When you're at the bottom…" she inhaled. "All you can see is the world up above and how… beautiful it is up there. But when you're at the top, all you can see is the world down below and how awful it is."

"You're saying I have a bad outlook on life?"

"No," she replied. "I never said that."

"Then what is it that you're trying to say?"

"It's that even when you have almost everything, you still want more," she replied, turning her head to look at his reaction. But his beautiful face remained blank of expression. She could just wonder how such a beautiful face could have such a conflicted heart.

But then again, everybody is conflicted about something else and he's not really that different from other people. He is just a little bit more… cold. But there are people who are just as cold—some, even colder.

* * *

"Tell me again what's not there," Alfred said, grinning. He and Leroy were looking out the huge window that overlooked the Garden and were watching the two lie on the grass as if it was normalcy. This is going nowhere but uphill to Alfred, and he loves every moment. For once, the prince had finally seen someone to keep up with and someone who could keep up with him—he just doesn't see it yet.

Leroy kept quiet about it, but he could see the string of hope in his eyes. And just like Alfred, he wanted the best for the prince.

"We still have to be careful," Leroy spoke, shrugging. His eyes were trained on the prince and the woman and he still could not believe this was happening. He had lost hope a few years ago, but he seemed to have been gravely mistaken.

Alfred only hummed. There is something about Santana Lopez that's both new and warm and it is affecting the prince in a good way. The real problem is if the prince would let it happen or if he would fight if off. There's no saying where he would go, but the old butler was hoping Santana Lopez would stick around for a longer time.

* * *

"My dad and I used to count the stars until we lose it," she laughed, letting herself go in the midst of the Monster. Sure, he did not ask for the stories, and he wouldn't care if she told him, but it feels good to actually tell someone how you feel about certain things even if he wasn't listening. In a way, it was good to know he's not listening—at least there's someone who's there but isn't going to judge her.

"How about you?" she asked in a low voice. "I'm sure behind that mysterious façade of yours, you have something that's made you happy. Something with your parents?"

She heard him sigh deeply before standing from the ground. Something about what she said repulsed him and it made her curious more than anything. She looked up at him but could not really see what his face looked like because he was standing against the light.

"It was a nice chat with you, Ms. Lopez," he said in a formal tone of voice that implied otherwise. "I have to go. Have a nice day."

After that, he left.

* * *

She was back again in the kitchen, but this time Dolores was sending Kit to school and Leroy had to accompany Sebastian to some kind of meeting downtown. She was left with Alfred and some assistant chefs who were clearing up the quarters. She was telling the old man what went on that morning and she seemed curious about things. Alfred seemed deep in thought.

"He_ left_, Alfred," she said, emphasizing on the verb. "As if there's something with the word 'parents' that made him…"

"Angry?" he supplied.

"No, just sad." She furrowed her brows. "Yes, I get it, his parents died in a car crash. But my mom was left in a burning house, and we kind of have the same experience. How long has it been? His parents died when he was fourteen—

"—fifteen," Alfred interjected.

"—Yes, and my mom died two years ago."

"You should know that he's a very different child growing up," Alfred said, meeting her eyes. "He was intelligent and quick-witted like no other, but…"

Santana waited for his continuation, but it seemed like he was reminiscing some kind of painful memory in the past, and it made her all the more curious. "But what?"

The old man lifted his eyes and they told her of seriousness. "But life comes to you when you're fifteen and you want to go to dinner with your parents but you don't know who they are."

"What… why?"

Alfred sighed deeply, and what is it with people here sighing deeply as if they recounted this story thousands of times? She rolled her eyes at this, just as the old man was walking around the counter to sit on the stool next to her.

"The first time he lost his memories was when he was turning fifteen," he said. "It was the most unexpected, most untimely thing. After it happened, he changed. Every day after that, he became angry and cold. He wanted no one to help him. He just wanted to be alone. And you think of how a young boy could handle all that. It pained his parents more than anything, really."

"He-he lost his memories? How?"

"It was a rare thing. The doctor said it would only happen thrice. Until then, he has no ability to dream, as some kind of side effect. We… we are just waiting for the third time. And then everything will be alright."

"The third time?" she asked.

"The second time happened in that car crash," he replied. The memory was painful, and she could see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice.

Alfred seemed to be deeply attached to the family he's serving. It seemed to her that all his life, he wanted what's best for Sebastian and he took the role of a father after his parents died. There's something about it that's beautiful and depressing at the same time.

"The older he gets, the more anxious we become," he added. "That's why I'm so glad you are here."

She blinked a couple of times before his words sank in. "What?"

"Maybe, you know, you can help. The prince has taken quite a liking in you. Nowadays, he seemed less tense and… he learned how to smile. He's learning some things and it's all because of you."

"What? He hates me," she said, shaking her head.

Alfred raised his brows with a grin and it annoyed Santana more. She rolled her eyes again and this time, Alfred saw it.

"Santana," he said, his grin turning into a sad smile. "I need to ask for a favor."

This time, it was her turn to raise her brows.

"I want you to stay."

* * *

**AN: **Hey, so this is late. And admittedly horrible because I slept on it like four time in a row. But hey, the next chapter will make up for this, hopefully. Yes, that's it. Review and tell me what's wrong with this one. Okay? That is all. Ciao!


	12. The Gift

"And he said, 'Do not smash your guitar, you don't have the money to buy another!' and I said, 'Seriously, man? I'm richer than Hugh Hefner! I got babes lining up left and right!'"

And Noah Puckerman, whilst holding his beer bottle, laughed with Finn Hudson, the famous football quarterback, that one fateful afternoon in one of the more private bars in New York. They were doing their usual boasting that moment after a long day of slacking off. The best friends were avid patrons of the bar, and the bartenders know who they exactly are—not because they see the two on TV often, but because with the few patrons visiting the bar the time they also usually do, they were the most boisterous.

The up and coming rock star, Noah Puckerman, was becoming the talk of many tabloids, gossip magazines, and celebrity talk shows. Not because of his rising fame, but because of the many girls he is apparently rumored to be associated with. And apparently, according to Noah, these girls seem to just pile themselves up in front of him. That may just be one of the noisier rumors about the icon, but beside that are the little whispers of his rough attitude, his conceitedness, and his pride.

Although he is a rumored-but-self-proclaimed playboy, his sight is set on one ordinary girl who has been missing for the past couple of weeks. He couldn't really care less whether she's on vacation or she's been eaten by sharks, he just wanted to know what happened to her. He couldn't afford not having the woman beside him because (a) they have good chemistry, and (b) she's an eye candy. The Flashes would have a blast with that once she's got a fair amount of exposure.

* * *

Mauricio Lopez is just equally sad outside or inside the mansion—just because he knows that his daughter is suffering inside and not him. He just wanted to go there and be the good father that he should be and take her away from that miserably miserable place. An angel like her deserves a better place to spend her time in.

He could remember the time she told him about making him resign from the job and just find another. It was because, she said, "It's hell in that office, _papa._"

And it truly is. How much more would it be inside the _real _hell?

After more than an hour of sitting on the dinner table, trying to make himself feel better by thinking that his daughter is mighty fine inside a gloomy mansion, he got up and did what he didn't think he would ever do ever since his daughter moved out.

He tried to cook.

He was okay with it, the pan was set, the eggs beaten and salted—everything was set. He just needed to know what to do next. But right before he readily gave up, the doorbell rang. As if awaiting this instant divine intervention, the old man sighed with a smile and turned the stove off to fetch the door. The question was: who would be thinking about visiting the old and sickly man who never made friends?

The Answer was behind the door, wearing dark sunglasses and leather jacket even though with the heat outside, it was advisable not to do so, holding a bouquet of red roses and trying to style his Mohawk cut with his other hand. The Answer greeted the old man with a slightly, but evidently, surprised, "Oh, hi, Mr. Lopez."

"Hello, Noah," Mauricio said, narrowing his eyes.

"Please, it's Puck, _Mauricio_."

"That's Mr. Lopez for you, thank you." And they stared at each other rather awkwardly until the old man finally decided on letting him in even though his daughter was not there.

"Uhm, can I ask where Santana is?" asked the rock star, walking the five steps from the door to the actual living room whilst looking around the not-so-spacious infrastructure.

"She's not here, unfortunately," Mauricio deadpanned.

Noah Puckerman, behind his dark sunglasses, raised his brows and widened his eyes. "Uhm, she's," he laughed, "of course, she's not here, Mauri—Mr. Lopez! That's so silly of you."

But Mauricio was not laughing. Instead, he sat on the couch and said, "If you can work the kitchen in less than half an hour, I will tell you about it."

And so, after less than even fifteen minutes, Noah Puckerman, an up and coming rock star, sat on the couch right across Mr. Lopez, wearing an apple-dotted apron and placing a plate of fried eggs on the coffee table in front of the old man.

Mauricio, not touching the plate of eggs, looked incredulously at the Mohawk-haired young man and said, "My daughter's in the Smythe Mansion."

"What—why?" and suddenly, he was sat straight with intent ears. Everybody knows about the Mansion, its difficult rules and its high pays. And everybody knows how miserable life is inside—either because of the stories, or because they actually paid some time in it and got out alive to tell the tales.

"She's working there for me," said the old man sadly.

And suddenly, the rock star had an idea.

* * *

It started that afternoon. The aura of the Mansion was normal, everybody went on about with their businesses. Every once in a while, little Kit would emerge from the huge study room and find Santana and they would talk—that is until Dolores calls for him to do his homework. Every once in a while also, Alfred seeks for her to do some paper works that aren't much of a bother, not since she has absolutely nothing to do.

But there is something different about Alfred. He seemed… more cheerful. If that was even possible. Out of the blue, he would ask if she would like something to drink or chat with her about random things, like the Garden and the prince. Which was not an oddity, she would dare guess.

"He was fond of the living things growing in that little safe haven of his," he said whilst sitting on her bed as if he were an older uncle. She never had an uncle that she knows of, not alive anyway. Most of her relatives are dead or are not keeping in touch. What's worth keeping in touch with to a family of two anyway?

"That's why he liked taking care of it," he added. "And that's why he likes the child, too."

For a moment, for a little silent moment, she wonders why he's doing this. Why is he trying to keep conversation? Why is he trying to fill her in with nice pictures of the Monster? And then her mind takes her back to the time he asked for her to stay.

What's in it for her if she stayed? Does she get something out of staying? But does it matter, though? She stays whether she wants it or not, as long she is under the Monster's words. And it pains her every time she realizes that her father is out there thinking himself to death about her. She wished she at least had some way to talk to him.

Courier mail felt a tad bit slower, but she gave it a try once. Nothing came from her father in return and she was afraid that her letters contained more swear words along with the euphemism she often uses in her mind to substitute Sebastian Smythe's name than allowed that it was immediately put to trash. Or if her letter did arrive to her father, she is most afraid that he wasn't in a healthy enough condition to compose a reply.

She would try, she really would, to talk to the Monster and ask for a day off just to check in on Mauricio and his condition… that is if she weren't too intimidated. True, she had talked to him times before, persuaded him to lay on the grass with her, talked with him through dinner, talked with him until she's tired of arguing. But every time she does, she feels like talking to a child trapped inside a crane game full of little stuffed toys. She would try to ask about things closely but not even remotely personal, ask for him to find a way out, and he would just tell him that he likes the way he is, where he is—not really verbally, but in a sense, his avoidance of the questions implied so.

"Yeah, he does like Kit," she said, getting consumed by her thoughts.

_Tonight, I'm gonna talk to him. _She thought.

"Do you… want to ask something?" Alfred asked, concern in his voice.

In fact, she does. "Yeah, uh," she turned her chair around and faced the old man, but her eyes kept darting around, trying to word her query. "Sebastian is free tonight?"

The old man narrowed his eyes ever so slightly. "Yes, that is true. Do you need something from him?"

His tone implies that it would be hard to make appointments to a man who _makes _the appointments, but she didn't want an appointment, not a meeting, not a formal one-on-one. Just a little talk.

"I want to talk to him tonight," she said, her determined tone surprising her even more than it should.

The look on Alfred's face was unreadable, but there was a small grin on his thin lips and his eyes, she thought, became a little brighter. "I would see to it that he hears this."

"Thank you," she smiled in return.

Sensing that there's nothing else to talk about, his face returned to that nonchalant and calm expression, stood up and walked out without another word, leaving the young woman to think about how to talk to that one person that, no matter how beautiful his face is, is still intimidating.

* * *

To say his study room is dark and creepy would be an understatement, just as saying that living in the Mansion feels like living in a prison cell.

When 7:30 came, the Monster was home and she was already being summoned to his study.

How or where he entered the Mansion would always be a mystery to her just like how the servants would magically disappear when they were being dismissed, or how the hallways would always be spotlessly clean even though she never caught anyone keeping it the way it is.

"You have something to ask me," he said, and it wasn't a question. He was sitting behind that beautiful wooden desk, an open book in front of him, and a pen in his hand. His eyes looked up at her behind his thick-framed glasses, and somehow, his voice felt cold to her ears.

"I don't," she said, trying to sound as determined as she had when she first met with the Monster's wrath. "But I have something to say—

"Stop it right there," he said, putting the pen down and closing the book. His sentence sounded tired and exhausted and she immediately contemplated whether this conversation would be worthy or not. He sighed before leaning on the comfortable looking chair. "I have to… you have to come with me."

She took a deep breath of surprise, and tried to make it as quiet as she could. When he stood and grabbed her wrist to direct her out of the office, she held her breath and prayed to God this would not be some kind of weird sacrificial ritual that she would be involved in. She shook that thought out of her head because of its ridiculousness, but she couldn't shake the fear away as he led her to the corridor that contained the forbidden room.

The walk seemed endless as she counted the ways she could die by a pen, or by a hallway lamp. Finally, he let go of her wrist and turned to a double-door room. The door was elegantly carved out of wood with the kind of fine window you would see in Roman churches. The prince swiped a key card into a device beside it and the lock clicked open.

He opened it, but the room was dark. When he clicked on the lights, Santana's jaw dropped.

From ceiling to floor, it was lined up with shelves stacked with vinyl records, cassette tapes, and CDs, properly stacked, labeled and arranged according to the year, genre and band. The floor was carpeted red, a rolling ladder was fixed on the higher shelves, and at the corner of the sizeable room stood a vinyl player, a CD player, and a cassette player, all connected to the multiple speakers in the room.

She let out a dreamy sigh as she thought about how many this room could accommodate. She would swear her heart literally stopped beating. Even the Beez would bow down to its knees in awe of this collection.

"My parents are huge music hoarders," he said, laughing a little. And there it was, he was letting himself go. His speech sounded a little more relaxed than cold, but it still has its fixed undertone.

"This is theirs?" she asked, taking little steps towards the nearest shelf and fixing her stare at the names of the records she had never even heard of before.

He was quiet for a while before he spoke. "Not anymore. It is yours… if you'd like it to be."

His last statement made her turn around with wide eyes. "Are you serious? This is, like, a million dollars' worth of records I will never have the money to buy."

He suppressed a smile and she could feel one creeping on her face at that moment.

"I am serious," he replied.

Right then, she wanted to hug the hell out of him—and embrace him, she did. Even if it was not in him to hug, even if he was a human cactus, she still hugged the hell out of him.

_Dammit, _he thought, his chest beating madly. The worst realization was that she was actually close enough to feel it against her body. He could feel his face heating up and however he wanted for it to disappear, it wasn't going away. So he went with his instincts and lifted his arms to wrap around her fragile figure. He was afraid that he might crush her, so he placed them around her gently.

She pulled away and held him at a close distance, trying to figure out the how and the why of things. She looked intently into his eyes, trying to decipher the deep puzzle that is his past and his present. There is something that's there that she did not see before and it was bothering her more than it really should.

But the prince? Everything that was on his mind, the little speech that he had tried to memorize a little earlier, everything had gone and was replaced with the urge to pull her close again and just… just kiss her. He wanted to, at least that's what his mind tells him. But his body was revolting, and as a result, he was leaning in with the pace of a sloth. Two voices in his head were now arguing whether this was wrong or right and neither of them wants to back down. So before he could decide on it, the woman was clearing her throat and letting go of him with a small smile that looked more like she is suppressing it.

She turned away from him, and just as she did so, he caught her scent of wild spices and vanilla. Nope, that's just normal, noticing how her tight clothes clad her figure in the right places—_damn it, stop thinking now. _

She walked towards the vinyl records, pulled one out from the third shelf and placed it on the gramophone. In a few seconds, Lennon and McCartney were singing about a tease of a woman over an authentically original bass line over the sound system. She closed her eyes and mulled over the awesomeness that is the Beatles.

"I should go now," said the prince, not really knowing what to do. She turned to him with her eyes open and with her lips curved into a smile.

"No, stay," she said. "If you don't love this kind of music, there's something wrong with you."

And stay he did.

* * *

**AN: **This is a longer chapter, hey! But the next one would be short, but it would hold a revolting event. I am sorry about this, I hope it makes up for the last one. Review, dears! Ciao!


	13. The Turn

In a short time, the prince became familiarized with Bruce Springsteen, Aerosmith, Jimi Hendrix, and Frank Sinatra. All of which were Santana's favorite male musicians. He also listened to her talk about some of the more famous bands of the present—the uphill and downfall of music—and compared them to vintage bands of the 70s while sitting on the carpeted floor of the music room; or as she calls it, Heaven. Watching her talk about music, life, and art made him want to sit there until the end of time and just listen to her until she's got nothing more to talk about. And even then, he would just be content with sitting with her.

"There are more and more of uninteresting music on the radio every day," she said whilst Michael Bolton belted out something about how a man should show his affection towards a woman over the faint sound system. "I don't get it. Why do people bore themselves with bullshit?"

He kept quiet for a while. Not to think about it, but to just mull over how this would never have been asked to him if he weren't talking to Santana Lopez. And then he spoke, "People like different things. What bores you might turn out to be exciting for them."

And then she laughed, and he thought all the more about how he just wanted to discover all that is Santana Lopez before he dies thinking of her mystery. She is an open book, a woman of no secret life, no secured privacy. But if people were books, she would be an open Greek-inscribed one and he would be a closed, blank-paged one. Apart from Greek being a rarely-used language at the present time, it is also one of the hardest to understand.

"Touché, Mr. Smythe," she said, sighing blissfully. "But artists nowadays are mostly sell-outs or just plain bad. You have to agree on that. All I could hear on the radio is sex and drugs and being wasted. What happened to meaning? The poetic sense of music? Today, it doesn't even matter anymore if a song has a story behind it, all that matters is if it pays or not. And…" she paused to look at the cover of the vinyl that's playing as a background to her voice, _Michael Bolton_, "…and I think that's bullshit. And just like any other bullshit, I want to do something about it."

"That's a dream," said the prince, looking over his shoulder to glance at her.

"It is," she replied. "And one day, I want to wake up and say, 'I did it'."

"Not impossible," said the prince, smiling slightly at her.

"You could have just said 'possible'," she said, laughing at his ridiculous use of litotes. "What about you? Did you want to be someone else other than… this?"

His gaze returned to a straight stare into the shelves across them and remained blank. "No."

"What?" she exclaimed, her eyes widening. "There has to be something there. Something you wanted to be as a child—."

And before she could think about it, the words were out of her mouth. She was sorry, she truly is, but she also couldn't say that she was sorry because the prince does not know that Alfred had told her about his disease. So she was in a place where she could not come up with a way out.

The prince cleared his throat and she swore she could feel the cold walls rising up again amidst the connection they were slowly working on. And just like the cold walls, he, too, was rising from the carpeted floor of Heaven.

"I'm sorry," said the prince, "we can't continue with this conversation. I have an important one o' clock meeting… thank you for your time."

She hated how formal he suddenly became. Just a few minutes ago, he was this quiet little kid with bright green eyes listening to music worth listening to. He was this young man with sensible answers to her statements. And then, in about a second, he turned into this lifeless metal robot who knows no more than ten words that include, 'important, meeting, enough, yes, no, and fine'. And just like before, he just upped and left like they were not almost having a good time.

* * *

The seat was different. It was leather, it was black, and he was inside a car. There was no Santana Lopez beside her, no one talking about music. The radio was spewing some rap bullshit that he has no care about—but she was definitely right about the radio being a boring playlist of songs about sex, drugs, and being wasted. And he wished he could tell that to her right at the moment. But he felt repulsive. He felt himself literally repulse from her, like two same poles of a magnet.

Of course… for someone to get involved with him, they had to know everything about him. And he can't get involved with anyone anymore because, let's face it, he would surely forget about them. There's one more lapse to pass, one more hole to fall into. He couldn't afford to… that's right, fall hopelessly in love with someone that will clearly run away if he slips into his disease.

The sun rained down its rays through the tinted glass of his window, and he remembered how fondly Santana remembered her past in Virginia as the same sunlight hit her smiling face. And then he remembered how much he wanted to say something about his past, but he couldn't… he just couldn't and that's why she should stay away from him. Because a man of no past has no future.

"_No future,"_ he whispered to himself, and somehow, it all became clear in his head.

Alfred must have heard him from the driver's seat because he looked at him through the rearview mirror with concern in his eyes. "Is something wrong?"

Sebastian averted his gaze from the moving picture outside his window to Alfred's eyes and sighed. "What do you know about me?"

Alfred smiled a little. He knows this game. It was a little game the prince had invented when he was still a teenager. He told Alfred to tell him little things he did not know about himself, but not give everything. "I know that you were ten when you had your first bike. You rode it around for ten seconds and then you hit the big tree in the Garden. You did not cry, though, and instead got up and rode it around until you got the hang of it."

And then he asks him about his present.

"What do you know about me now?"

The car stopped in traffic and Alfred smiled again. "I know that you're confused. And I also know that you like Ms. Lopez," he replied.

And the prince knew that Alfred would be the rightest person in his life right now. He can trust anybody half-heartedly, but he knows Alfred would never let him down.

"Do you know why?" the prince asked as the traffic moved again.

"I don't, Sebastian," said Alfred. "But you do. Maybe you can't find it in you now, but you will. Eventually."

The prince got silent after that and they drove quietly to the Huge Palace.

* * *

"You are a very available bachelor, Puck," Chelsea Kelley admitted. Chelsea Kelley is the host and interviewer of a live show called 'Chelsea Tonight'. Noah Puckerman had been invited to do an interview with her that night, but his manager had to pull him from his bar stool and literally dress him up for this interview. If his manager hadn't, the show wouldn't have a guest star that night.

Sat on a red semi-circular couch and surrounded by hundreds of fans around the studio, Noah Puckerman leaned on the couch and smiled his winner smile.

The rock star laughed at this. "So I'm told," he replied.

"Tell me, do you have a girlfriend?" the dirty blonde haired woman asked.

"As a matter of fact, I do," he said, slightly buzzed. But neither Chelsea nor the audience seemed to be bothered by it. The only reaction he got was the sly 'aww-ing' of the younger girls.

"Really?" asked Chelsea with faux enthusiasm. "Tell us about her!"

"Well, she's a beautiful lady—she's not here though—but she's an eye candy," he said, in a matter of fact tone. "She's working for that Sebastian Smythe guy, you know him?"

"Yes," Chelsea answered, but before she could elaborate, Puckerman was talking again.

"Well, that douchebag's been keeping her from me," he said. Apart from the profanity being bleeped out of his sentence, everything was heard.

"I'm sure work is pretty busy around this time of the year."

"No," the rock star shook his head. "I mean literally. He is _literally _keeping her away from me."

* * *

**AN: **Okay. I don't know how to say this. I don't know how to really say anything-but, here goes:** this chapter will/might be the last I post of this story**. I am not leaving, no. I'm just, you know, keeping quiet for a long, long while until everything comes back to me. It's been a very hard year, I was on the brink of suicide and none of my closest friends know about it, and I don't know why I'm telling you all this, I guess to _excuse _myself from the prolonged absence and the sudden lack of interest in everything.

Hey, to make up for it, I have a** poorly written one-shot to post later this week**. I know, brace yourselves for this horrendous thing, but it's the best I could come up with given everything. It has been/always will be a good time with you, guys. You were the most supportive of people.

I also know that this has not been given closure, just like my other work *cough*Coup de Theatre*cough*, so I will try my best to come up with a short backbone of what would have happened if I were to finish these.

As before, stay tuned for the last pieces of my mind. Ciao!


End file.
